


Soul Breaker

by CultMother



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Burnplay, Burns, Crash & Burn, Dark, Dark Magic, Developing Friendships, Emotional Roller Coaster, Enemies, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Idiots in Love, Kinky, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Multiple Endings, Other, Possible Character Death, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Smut, Unrequited Love, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:07:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CultMother/pseuds/CultMother
Summary: It could be worse.That's a lie.She'll make it through this.That's another lie.





	1. 0

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE  
> Halsey - Gasoline.  
> It'll be a bit short in the beginning and I won't be too quick to update, but that's because I'm working on another fic. ^^ Have fun reading and I hope you enjoy!  
> There will be an EXTREME amount of violence and gore in this book. Fair warning!

They dragged the child from her hovel but she did not make a sound as the crowd jeered, screamed and threw rotten fruits in her direction; they splattered on the ground. She winced as she felt the jagged edge of a sharp stone dig into her foot. A thin trail of blood was left behind; possibly the only thing she'd ever leave behind in this world. She wondered why this universe was like this; as another sharp stone crossed her foot she almost let out a cry but she wouldn't give the crowd the satisfaction.

They dragged her up the wooden steps.

"Burn the witch!" An angry, red-faced man screamed, spit flying from his mouth. Disgusting. If these were her last moments she'd at least like some consideration. Her arms were roughly yanked back, the feel of the rope burning against her wrists and the wood of the pole behind her rubbing against her back. She was scared. This was it. This was it and she hadn't even lived yet. Eight years old and deemed a witch by these stupid fucking imbeciles.

A priest swept out from the crowd, facing it, making dramatic gestures as he spoke. "Eight-year-old Myra. No mother or father to be seen, yet she lives amongst us! We let this pitiful creature into our town and how does she repay us? Chanting curses under her breath in the meadows!" Myra scoffed. Letting her into their town? No, they let her sift through their garbages. That was it. The priest pointed at her. "Myra is a beyond a doubt, guilty! Let us burn the witch!" The roars of the crowd were deafening, blocking out any other sound that she could've possibly heard; Myra thought she was going deaf for a moment. Each separate voice, each stomp of their feet, came together to create a sound that even a rushing waterfall could not beat. They chanted, cheered, for Myra's death.

The collective hatred of the villagers almost made her choke on her own last words as they marched towards her, a burning torch in the hand of the priest, grinning gleefully at the thought of the charred corpse of a witch. Myra didn't know what else to do. "I don't know if I'm a witch or not. I don't know who my mother is," She held back a cry at the thought of the woman who'd abandoned her at birth, "But if I am a witch then I curse you!" Myra screamed. In her rage, blades quickly extended from every part of her body, weak and feeble but still managing to put a dent in the pole behind her before quickly withdrawing, causing the crowd to gasp at her declaration; this would not help her but she wanted to make them scared, too. It was unfair if she was going to die and she would be the only one scared, suffering. She just hoped burning alive wouldn't hurt as much as it looked like it hurt the last witch to come through.

Judging by how she remembered the screams, she knew it was only wishful thinking as the torch was lowered to the pyre; the flames began and they seared the bottoms of her feet, causing the poor girl to scream in agony. The flames climbed to her thighs, flicking up to her arms and she continued to scream just wanting it to end. 

A severely cold splash of water felt not only welcome but agonizing. She bit her lip until it bled, doing her best not to scream as more splashes came; she could barely hear anything, barely register the fact her bonds were cut. Her hands, shaking, came before her and she almost cried seeing the blackened, charred flesh up to her forearms. She would've dropped to her knees and sobbed had she the time but she was pulled from the wet straw, the stinging pain of her now-defaced feet as bits of skin were torn off by straw brushing against them all she could really focus on. 

She was in his arms, shaking, the dead flesh of her thighs being dug into by the hands that held her. She didn't even care about the pain anymore as she clutched at his white shirt, now stained with blood. He shushed her and she hadn't realized she was even whimpering. "It's alright. I won't let them hurt you any longer. You're mine now."

His voice comforted Myra, but she didn't know who he was. She swore she'd heard it before. Yet, lulled into a sleep by the pain and her own nerves she couldn't resist the temptations of dreams which held so less pain for her than this world did.


	2. 1

Her gloved hands ran over the page of her favored book in her father's library. She smiled slightly to hear the soft sounds of the pages against her fingertips; the flip of each page signifying the continuation of an adventure. Myra pushed a lock of hair out of her face, the silkiness of her white glove always a welcome touch.

She brought her index finger to her lips, giving it a slight lick as she used the wetness of it to turn another page. It was a chilly morning, so much so that the morning glories in the greenhouse had been slightly frosted over. Myra readjusted her coat slightly to make sure that her warmth wouldn't fade as quickly; she quite liked the times spent in the yard, even if it was under the glass of the greenhouse. 

The sound of the door creaking open caused Myra to glance up from her page, towards the person who'd entered. Her father sat beside her wheelchair on a metal stool which seemed a bit weathered from the times. He remained silent as Myra came to her favorite passage in the book, reading it out loud, "For the heroine, however, the story did not end so simply. There was the question of the wannabe lover, the cleanup of the kingdom and who would take the throne, yet she did not despair for she had all the time in the world to make these choices. For her, maybe it was not yet a happily ever after, but with work, it could become so." She shut the book, having read the final page, and expectantly waited for her father to say whatever he'd come to say.

Rivan was a rich merchant; he tended to travel between cities often, so he didn't have much time to really come home and spend time with her. She understood; he was a single man and work was his priority. He'd never really been suited to fatherhood, really, as it was more thrust upon him while he was returning to the village from a trip six years ago. Rivan had inherited a great sum from his father before him; before his father's death, he'd been known as a partier, one for many a village girl to avoid. It seemed like with his first trip around, he'd gained more responsibility, especially with claiming Myra as his own when several people had suspected he'd have a bastard child or two. 

It was simply Myra's luck, the only luck she'd ever had in her life, that he was passing by and saw the insanity of a witch trial on an eight-year-old who had no room to defend herself. Only Rivan had questioned that madness and if he hadn't, her bones would've made it to a ditch. Maybe not even that far; perhaps they'd drop her in the meadow she crawled out of to become fertilizer for the beautiful flowers.

"Myra," He began. Myra knew nothing good could come of Riven actually using her name; he usually called her something affectionate, like kiddo or child or something. A frown crossed her face and Riven chuckled nervously before sighing, running a hand through his hair before clapping his hands together. "Look, you and I know that you're not going to get anything more from staying here," His eyes strayed to her hair, once a beautiful blonde but now white from the stress and fear of almost being burned alive. "So I went ahead and did something you may not approve of."

Her frown only grew as she gave him a slight glare. "Father, what do you mean?" He cringed at the word, knowing that Myra rarely used it and only referred to him as Rivan most of the time; he felt like he betrayed her in a way. "Rivan?" Her tone was now as sharp as his mother's once had been; God, that part of her he could do without, but in a way, he wouldn't have his adopted daughter any other way but headstrong with a sharp tongue and quick wit.

Rivan's shoulders slumped in defeat as he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "As you know, the DWMA is fairly new,"

"Yes, but what does it have to do with me?"

"I think that you should leave Rosemere." Myra's heart dropped. Leaving Rosemere Estate? She couldn't. There was no way- she wouldn't fit in. Her legs. She wore heavy skirts purposefully. She never took off her gloves. Thinking of going outside beyond Rosemere's gates almost gave her a heart attack. "Surely you've read of Death and his child. And of the customs through each generation. I have sent a letter to Death, who has demanded that noblemen may submit their able-bodied children as potential marriage candidates for his child. You and six others have been selected."

It felt like all of the air had been sucked out of Myra's chest. How on earth did Rivan expect her to go above any of the other candidates, especially with her condition? The only person who had ever loved her was Rivan. Not a single soul would be able to take one look at her in some sort of school outfit without retching at the sight of her legs. Hell, she could barely do it herself! Six other girls, whom would possibly not only have skill in battle but also in being ladylike, would definitely do better than she would. "Riven, why would you do this to me?"

He picked up one of her gloved hands, surrounding it with his own, squeezing tightly. Myra could no longer feel any sort of sensation from her third-degree burns. Even pain was lost to her; now, it was just a gentle fluttering against her skin. Sort of a numbing pressure. "You may not see it as a mercy, but a beautiful young girl shouldn't just be locked away in a mansion all her life. I will not have you rotting away in these halls. You like books. You love adventures and romances and maybe, just maybe, this will give you the chance to experience that." 

Myra tore her hands away from Riven's grasp, this time glaring vividly. "I did not ask for the chance to experience anything in a book, Riven, so I do not see it as a mercy. I was perfectly fine before you got involved, dumbass!" She snapped, placing her hands on the wheels of her wheelchair and rolling away as fast as she could push herself. 

"I'm still your father, Myra! Don't talk to me like that!" Riven stood from the stool, knocking it over in the process. She didn't look back as she passed through the greenhouse doors and over the ramp. "You'd better start packing!" He'd tried to sound intimidating, but it more came out as a sorrowful squeak. "I'm doing this for you, Myra," His voice was weak and he knew his statement hadn't reached her ears. Defeated, Riven slumped to the floor, sighing. He knew she'd be difficult to deal with.


End file.
